


Maybe Just A Midnight Rendezvous

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Breaking Up & Making Up, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mutual Pining, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Parseltongue, Pining, Smoking, Top Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 14:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13977048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: Harry's back in London and he's determined to show Draco how things have changed.





	Maybe Just A Midnight Rendezvous

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon prompt for my Tuesday Ficlets prompts. The prompt was "I always hc that Harry is covered in tattoos but I would love to hear your take on how Draco acts when he first sees them XD." This one got away from me even though it was meant to be shorter. My other fills can be found on Tumblr [@writsgrimmyblog](https://writsgrimmyblog.tumblr.com/) / [@writcraft](https://writcraft.tumblr.com/). The title and quote at the start are from Eli Lieb's 'Kissing Your Tattoos'
> 
> Unbeta'd and it's late so I might have to do a final polish tomorrow, excuse any typos!

_Don't know if it's love or just a fling_  
_Push you out or pull you in again_  
_Maybe just a midnight rendezvous_  
_But I'll stay here kissing your tattoos_

“I didn’t expect to see you in London again, Potter.” Draco orders a glass of wine and tries not to sound like he cares. He doesn’t want to think about a time when Potter was Harry and everything seemed rich with possibility. Not when he’s spent over a year trying to forget.

“I don’t go out much,” Harry says. He looks different. His chin is rough with stubble and his eyes are a darker, wine-bottle green. His hair is as recalcitrant as ever, refusing to be tamed. Much like the man himself, Draco thinks bitterly. He wants to shove Harry. Wants to push him hard against the bar and say, don’t you know you’re supposed to be a hero? Don’t you know you used to be mine?

“You’ve been away.” It’s a statement, not a question. Harry’s been in America for a year doing the kind of impressive things that make him everybody’s darling. Draco wasn’t even aware he had come back, which is odd because he’s all too aware of Harry’s movements most of the time. The last article in the _Prophet_ had pictures of Harry at some fancy New York supper with visiting dignitaries. He looked happy and Draco hated that.

“Now I’m back.” Harry’s voice carries a strange American twang like a familiar song sung off-key. “For good.”

“Bravo.” Draco takes Harry in quickly, so he won’t be caught staring. He’s done that before. Drunk Harry in and whispered forever against his skin. It wasn’t forever, though. It wasn’t even close. “You’re sick of New York already?”

Harry shrugs, giving Draco a shrewd look. “Sick of missing people at home.”

“Ah.” Draco curses the leap and beat of his heart. He should know better by now. After all, he stopped pinning his hopes on Harry long ago. “How are the Weasleys?” 

“Do you care?” Harry contemplates Draco, his expression strange and closed off.

“Couldn’t give a fuck, honestly.” Draco swirls his wine in his glass, watching the burgundy legs slide into the pool of liquid at the base. “I’m fine. Good of you to ask.”

“I was just about to.” Harry sounds uncertain. Draco can’t look at him. Can’t stand the way he still remembers the heat of Harry beneath his hands and the time when it seemed like everything could be theirs. Harry takes a breath, exhales and orders a glass of _whatever he’s having_. “How are you, Malfoy?”

“Fine.” Draco doesn’t mean to sound so clipped, so brusque. He gathers all of his strength and keeps his words bright and breezy. “Business is good. Mother has been ingratiating herself with Muggles. She won a competition for her geraniums.”

Harry huffs with laughter. “Pass on my congratulations.”

“Don’t laugh at her.” Draco glares at his wine. “At least she’s trying.” Not like you, he wants to add. Not like _you_.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Harry says. The air is thick with everything unspoken. When it sounds as though Harry is hovering on the edge of an apology, Draco stands and drains the rest of his drink.

“Why are you really here?”

Harry doesn’t answer, his lips pressed in a tight line. Eventually he replies, not looking at Draco. “I heard this is where you come on Friday nights.”

“Well I won’t anymore,” Draco says. “Not if everybody knows this is where to find me.” He slides on his coat and puts his scarf around his neck. It reminds him of Harry, even now. The way the cashmere felt on his neck when Harry used it to tug him close. The press of Harry’s wool gloves against Draco’s cheeks. The way his kisses always tasted like London rain.

“Wait,” Harry says. He reaches out his hand and stops, just before his fingers touch Draco’s arm. It used to be so easy, being touched by Harry. He used to have every permission. Now Draco pulls his arm out of Harry’s reach and puts his hands in the deep pockets of his winter coat. He knows the collar is sharp and upturned, just how Harry likes. It’s charcoal cashmere and Harry said once that he liked Draco in grey. Said it made his eyes look like clouds on a rainy day. They laughed about it because it sounded like a line from a bad Muggle film. Draco wonders why he’s still dressing for Harry. “Do you have to leave?”

Draco rolls his eyes at Harry, because he really can’t be that obtuse. Despite Draco’s plans to walk away he finds himself swaying closer until he’s in the space between Harry’s spread thighs, close enough to feel the warmth of Harry’s body against his skin. He presses his hand to Harry’s chest, feeling the steady pulse of his heart. “You were never supposed to leave.”

“I’m not sure I ever really did.” Harry’s voice is low and rough. He presses his hand over Draco’s and holds it against his heart. Beat, beat, breathe. “I left some important things behind.”

Draco slides his hand away and adjusts his scarf, looking towards the window. It’s started to rain. “Did you?” It sounds like he couldn’t care less, even though the need to understand burns through him and twists his gut. Even being this close to Harry again is like sinking into a hot bath after a hard day. He was the one bright spot in Draco’s miserable life. The one thing he knew he could rely on, until one day he couldn’t. 

“I left because I had to,” Harry says. “For work, for myself. I couldn’t be here with Skeeter poking around and everything changing. It was always just for a short time. Not forever. Just for a bit.”

Draco shakes his head. He scratches at Harry’s leg, just above the knee. He’s wearing thick jeans, new but familiar. “Too long.”

“I came back.”

“Too late.” Draco knows it isn’t true, even as he bites it out. Everything is so damned confusing. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt such a violent combination of emotions about anyone in his life. “Come home with me,” Draco says. He’s always been a weak man. “You know the address.”

Draco leaves, before Harry can give him an answer.

*

They don’t do the sensible thing and talk about what happened and where it all went wrong. As soon as Harry steps through the Floo into Draco’s home, Draco tugs him into a kiss. He knows it’s stupid. Knows Harry isn’t the person he expected him to be, once. But he’s still Harry Potter – the person Draco used to dream about coming to save him with messy hair, a Gryffindor scarf and glasses that didn’t quite fit right. He’s the boy Draco’s always wanted, and the man he very nearly had.

Draco can’t help but notice that Harry kisses like a man starved. He twists his hand into Draco’s hair and tugs off his scarf, pushing his coat off his shoulders and unbuttoning Draco’s shirt with his free hand. Draco pushes his hands under Harry’s jumper and doesn’t miss the flex of his muscles at Draco’s palms connect with the hard heat of his torso.

“Things have changed,” Harry says. Gruff, matter of fact and like everything didn’t already turn upside down long ago.

“You don’t have to tell me that.” Draco pulls back and takes in the flush of Harry’s cheeks, the set of his jaw and his ruffled appearance. He fishes a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping one on the desk in his living room and pushing it between his lips. He leans back on the desk, crossing his legs at the ankle. He doesn’t much care that he’s half-hard and his shirt is unbuttoned. He certainly doesn’t care that he probably looks just as well kissed as Harry does. Harry always liked to see Draco looking dishevelled. Draco adjusts himself in his trousers, an image of Harry straddling him and stroking his cock saying _I love making a mess of you_ running through his mind. Draco takes a longer drag on his cigarette. Nicotine and hard liquor. The _Harry Potter’s Leaving For New York_ vices.

“Not us.” Harry looks away, rubbing his jaw. “Me.”

“A lot can happen in a year.” Draco blows a thin tendril of smoke into the air, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “I’ve changed too.”

“I bet,” Harry says. There’s a rustle of cloth against flesh and when Draco looks at Harry again he’s stripped out of his jumper, holding it in his hand. Harry has never been stocky, but he’s always been athletic. Draco knows where his light muscles flex when he’s touched just right. He knows where Harry has small marks on his skin, because he’s tasted, sucked, licked and fucked Harry in every possible way. He’s had Harry stretched out with his arse cheeks spread, he’s tasted Harry’s armpit, kissed the crook of his elbow and knows in intimate detail the sounds Harry makes when he comes. Draco stubs out his cigarette and moves close to Harry, brushing his fingers over the colourful patterns on his chest.

“Tattoos.”

“I had them done in America.” Harry’s voice is tentative, as if he’s seeking some sort of approval. Draco isn’t sure what to feel. He’s never particularly been a tattoo sort of man. He has one of his own, after all. One he tried to burn off with spells, until his mother found him screaming and Fire Called a therapist. 

“Clearly.” Draco brushes his thumb over Harry’s nipple and doesn’t miss the gasp which leaves his parted lips. He moves to the phoenix rising from the ashes above Harry’s heart and smiles. “I’m not surprised to see this.”

“No.” Harry laughs shakily. “I bet you’re not.”

Draco’s fingers still as he catches sight of the tattoo on Harry’s arm, just below a stag and a doe nestled together. It’s exquisite. A silvery, green snake which curls around his arm and forms a band as if it’s never planning to let go. It’s slender and intricate and when Draco touches it, the colours shimmer and the tattoo twists and slides beneath his fingers. 

“This one’s magic,” Draco says.

“It’s the only one. The rest are Muggle.”

“Why this one?” Draco touches the tattoo again and there’s a soft hiss which reminds him of the time Harry spoke to him Parseltongue. They both new Harry was leaving, they just never talked about it. They did everything in their power to avoid talking about it, until during one of their last sweaty, desperate couplings, Harry decided to open his heart to Draco in a language Draco couldn’t understand. Now as Draco touches the tattoo he realises he can decipher the hisses if he listens closely enough. _He thinks about you. All the time. He wants you to touch him. Do you know that he’s in love with you?_

Draco snatches his hand back and narrows his eyes at Harry. His voice is tight, his fury barely controlled. “You’re in _love_ with me? Fuck you, Potter. Fuck you.”

Harry catches Draco’s wrist, holding him steady and his voice is broken and jagged. “You know I was. I _am_. You must have known.”

“You left.” Draco shakes his head. “You’re Harry Potter. You’re supposed to be the good one, don’t you understand? I’m supposed to be the fuck up. The Death Eater, the coward, the one whose father’s going mad in Azkaban. You’re the golden boy. You’re not supposed to be a complete and utter mess too, not when everybody needs you.”

“Everybody?” Harry’s voice is soft and quiet, his thumb moving over Draco’s pulse. 

“Me, Potter. I needed you to stay.” Draco takes a breath and he finally meets Harry’s eyes. “You left without saying goodbye.” Cold sheets, empty bed, broken heart. Harry’s lucky Draco didn’t burn everything to the ground.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be everybody’s hero when you don’t even know how to save yourself?” Harry takes an unsteady breath. “Everything was falling apart. You were the only thing that made sense, even when you made no sense at all.”

“Idiot,” Draco mutters. He jerks his head for Harry to follow him through the house. They both know where he’s taking them. Harry’s been here before, after all. He takes his shirt off properly when they get to the bedroom and unbuckles his trousers. “We might as well fuck, as you’re here.”

Harry rolls his eyes and stills Draco’s hand. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Draco can’t resist the curl of his lip or the quiet anger that rolls through him. “You probably want to make love.”

Harry gives Draco a careful look. After a minute, he shrugs. “We’ll do it however you want.” He unbuckles his belt and drops his jumper onto a chair. It’s not long before he’s completely naked, standing in front of Draco in all his glory. Harry really is gorgeous. His prick is thick and heavy, filling slightly under Draco’s gaze. Dark hair trails from his belly button downwards and the ease with which he can stand like that and expose himself to Draco’s scrutiny makes Draco’s mouth water. He tries to remind himself that he’s not supposed to be doing this again. 

Harry moves to the bed and stretches out, watching Draco. He looks good enough to eat, spread out like a buffet for Draco feast on. Draco divests himself of his clothes and slips onto the bed. “I’m topping.”

Harry’s eyes widen momentarily, because Draco doesn’t usually do that. “If you want.”

Draco shrugs. He doesn’t want. What he wants is the stretch of Harry’s cock inside his body. He wants Harry over him, looking into Draco’s eyes as if he’s drowning. He just isn’t sure he’s ready for it. “Whatever. You top if you want.”

“I. Don’t. Care.” Harry speaks slowly enunciating his words. He puts his hand on Draco’s cheek, forcing him to meet his gaze. “We don’t have to do any of it. I didn’t come back for this.”

“Liar,” Draco says. 

Harry grins, the first proper smile of the evening. “I came back for this a bit.” He leans in, his breath hot against Draco’s lips. “But mainly just for you.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” Draco says. He doesn’t wait for an answer, twisting his hands in Harry’s hair and hauling him into a fierce, possessive kiss. His throat hurts, and his chest is too tight. Everything is so hot, so desperate. It’s like Harry’s sand and Draco’s watching it slip through his fingers. It’s futile trying to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.

“Steady, darling,” Harry says. His voice is low, and it breaks, bends and snaps. He sounds shaken. “Steady, love.”

“Don’t call me that.” Draco swallows back the wave of emotion which threatens to overwhelm him. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

“Darling?” Harry furrows his brow. It’s not a term he uses much. _Darling_ is really more of a Draco term.

“Love,” Draco clarifies. The word feels too large for the room. It settles between them and Harry’s snake tattoo and hisses, sibilant and sure. _He loved you even before Paris._

Draco snorts. “Paris? You don’t remember that.”

Harry nods, his eyes dark like the sea at night. “I do, actually. I remember everything. All of it.”

“I wasn’t even anything then,” Draco says. They didn’t fuck until at least two years after that. Hurried, unexpected and finding their way around one another with fumbling _sorry, sorry_ s. 

“You were.” Harry slides his fingers between Draco’s. “You were something to me.”

Paris. Draco remembers their tentative friendship. He remembers leaving on a Muggle train and Harry coming to see him off for some unknown reason. They stood awkwardly on the platform and it quickly became apparent neither of them had anything to say to one another. Draco didn’t know then why Harry always left him so hot and flustered. He knows now. He knows all too well.

“You’re good at not saying things,” Draco mutters.

“Too good,” Harry agrees. He squeezes Draco’s hand. “I’m getting better at saying stuff.”

“You’d need to.” Draco sighs and he glances at Harry. He’s so in love with him it takes his breath away. “I just want to fuck. I can’t unpack the years tonight.”

“Okay.” Harry brushes Draco’s hair back from his forehead. “Whatever you want.”

“I want you to top.” Draco closes his eyes and hopes he isn’t going to live to regret this. “Can you promise me one thing?”

“Anything.” Harry almost sounds like he means it.

“Be here in the morning. Still be here in the morning.”

Harry whispers _yes_ before capturing Draco’s mouth in another heady kiss that tastes like a promise.

*

Being fucked by Harry feels like coming home. Draco is so relaxed and turned on by the time Harry has fingered him and licked every part of his body, he’s desperate for Harry’s prick inside him. He brushes his hands over Harry’s tattoos when he finally finally pushes inside. It stretches, burns and then there’s a spark of pleasure and a need to be fucked which is as overwhelming as it is surprising.

Draco didn’t expect to have this with Harry again. He didn’t expect to have Harry pushing into him and whispering his name like a prayer or a curse. He didn’t expect to have Harry in his bed, tender and fierce, strong and soft. He’s a mess of contradictions. His tattoos are both bold and bright and deep and dark. There are faces that look like screams etched onto Harry’s skin that can’t ever be wiped off. There are beautiful, hopeful scenes and a disparate array of quotes in cursive script or bold typeface. Words like _always_ and the Hogwarts motto _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_ which makes Draco inexplicably sad. It takes him back to Hogwarts at winter and watching _Potter_ fly his broom, his nose pressed against frosted glass. Draco can't help but wonder what went through Harry's mind when the word _Draco_ was inked on his skin, even if the context of the full quote has no relationship with Draco himself.

Draco slides his hands into Harry’s hair and tips back his neck as Harry sucks and bites at the skin. He’s not gentle, but Draco doesn’t like gentle and Harry knows it. He likes a bit of rough and tumble and craves the stretch, the deep thrusts and the feeling of Harry taking him apart piece by piece. Draco kisses Harry and slides his hand to his cock, wanking himself off with swift strokes as Harry picks up his pace. Harry comes first, his climax spilling from him as Draco’s name falls from his lips. With a groan of pleasure, Harry slides out of Draco and moves down his body. He sucks Draco into the back of his throat, working two lubricated fingers inside Draco’s body as he does so. He knows Draco. Knows what tricks to use, knows what buttons to press. He doesn’t fuck any differently. New York hasn’t changed the slant of his kisses or the way he curls his fingers. He still can’t take Draco all the way in, hasn’t learned any new moves. It makes Draco happy, knowing if Harry has fucked anyone else along the way he’s been fucking people like he’s always wanted to fuck Draco. 

“Did you think of me?” Draco asks. His words are hardly there at all, broken, breathless things which leave his lips on a crest of passion.

“Always.” Harry pulls back, stretching Draco with his fingers. He wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand and there’s an unmistakable heat in his gaze when he watches Draco. “I never stopped. I missed you, so much.”

“Me too,” Draco says. He reaches for Harry, pushing him back down onto his cock. In a moment of fierce jealousy he holds Harry in place, uses his mouth and fucks into his throat until Harry is moaning low and guttural, eyes glazed with pleasure. “That’s it, darling.” Draco tugs at Harry’s hair, not to say stop but to say carry on. Draco might like to be fucked, but he also likes to take charge. Draco lets Harry spread his thighs, lets him push down over Draco’s cock and suck and tongue at the length of it. He can tell Harry’s putting in every effort and it doesn’t take long for that thought to bring Draco over the edge.

They lie side by side, staring at the ceiling as they catch their breath. Draco’s sticky and uncomfortable and he wants to clean things up a bit, while simultaneously not wanting to wash any part of Harry off his skin. Even the sticky, sweaty, messy bits.

As if he can read Draco’s thoughts, Harry props himself up and slides on his glasses as if he wants to see Draco properly. He kisses the corner of Draco’s mouth. “You’re a mess.”

“Just how you used to like me,” Draco says.

“Yeah.” Harry kisses Draco properly. “I still do, for the record. I like you all of the ways.”

Draco watches the little snake tattoo slide band-like around Harry’s arm and he shrugs. “We'll see.”

“Still want me to stay?" Harry sounds uncertain.

Draco yawns. "Of course I do, you daft prick." He softens the blow by giving Harry a kiss which lasts far longer than he had initially intended. By the time he pulls away they're both breathless. “Night.”

“Night,” Harry says.

It takes a while for Draco to fall into a restless sleep and he forces himself not to think about the last time, when _goodnight_ turned out to mean _goodbye_.

*

The sun wakes Draco before Harry’s snoring does, the sound soft and soothing. _Here. Here. Still here._

Draco takes a breath, grabs his wand and uses it to close the curtains. There’s no point in inviting the morning in too soon. Not when the morning will mean working out all of the knots and tangles that still make everything between he and Harry so complicated. He wants to keep the morning at bay for as long as possible. For long enough to take a shower. Long enough to have another round in bed. Long enough for boiled eggs and toast soldiers with a hot, strong pot of coffee.

Draco curls up close to Harry and rests his hand on the snake tattoo on Harry's arm.

 _He's going to stay_. 

The tattoo is warm beneath Draco's palm and he isn't sure if he hears the promise in the hissing because he can, or because he wants to. Either way, he runs his fingers over the snake and watches it curl and slide over Harry's skin. Draco presses his lips against the tattoo.

“I know.”

Draco doesn't know if _he's going to stay_ means for coffee, forever or somewhere in between. What he does know is that he's going to wake up to a brand new day and a London with Harry Potter in it again. It's more than he had yesterday, and it's just enough to look forward to tomorrow. 


End file.
